


Unmasked

by RedxMuller



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 03:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16589984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedxMuller/pseuds/RedxMuller
Summary: Deathstroke has been hired to assassinate Bruce Wayne, but finds something intensely familiar about the billionaire shortly into the encounter.





	Unmasked

**Author's Note:**

> This is important. I am responsible for writing Bruce Wayne but, my wonderful partner Storyteller deserves all of the credit for his incredible portrayal of Dadstroke~ I'm deeply happy that I can share this with you all. It's one of my proudest threads, so I hope you can all enjoy it as much as I did. 
> 
> On a side note, this portrayal of Slade is based off of the Teen Titans TV series Slade (voice and mannerisms) with plenty of comic lore sprinkled in. And this is also with the backstory that Bruce Wayne spent those seven years with the League of Assassins. 
> 
> I also apologize for any grammatical errors, this wasn't produced with a lot of technicalities in mind.

You are now leaving Gotham: hallelujah. Bruce couldn’t help but feel anxious and relieved the moment his eyes caught the green sign on the side of the road. A sign he’d seen many times in his life but one that gave him as much comfort as it did dread. Something always happened when he left town. Always. His Rogue’s seemed to sense when the Batman wasn’t around to corral them together and decided to cause trouble for him to clean up upon his return. On the other hand, some small, bitter part of him was happy to leave it all behind. The police needed to pick up their slack anyway.

Vacations...were not something he ever took. Not even now. Bruce Wayne had been invited to attend a gathering of socialites who were taking a cruise together for three days. Coworkers, mutual friends, people who were eager to meet him and so on. A way to save face, and keep up the image that yes, he did, in fact, have a social life.  
Dressed sharply, already having fallen into character while driving, he smoothly shifted the gears and sped on down the relatively empty road. But he couldn’t shake that horrible paranoia. 

He could just imagine it. Sitting at the bar, watching the news, and there it would be. ‘The goddamn Joker couldn’t settle down for three days and decided to have a full on street war with rival gangs, here’s the list of casualties, and also the Batman decided to be a no-show and let Gotham fend for itself while Bruce Wayne drank his happy ass into Oblivion.’ Yes. What a hero.

What he didn’t seem to realize, was that somewhere out in the distance, a hurdle would soon present itself. One specifically sent out to put an end to his life. There was nothing personal here, in the eye of his assassin. It was just good business.

Slade Wilson was not particularly obsessed with being a wealthy man. The business itself was never about accruing wealth for him, but at the same time, he did not consider himself a sadist. No, he rarely took pleasure in cold-blooded killing. It was the sense of accomplishment at a job well done. For what job was so noble as hunting the most dangerous game of all?

He did not even bother to count out all the zeroes behind the exorbitant payment for this job, but it was doubtless that his current employer very, very much wanted Wayne wiped off the face of the Earth. Again, he could not care less about the money. What truly fascinated him were the rumors of other assassination attempts against Wayne, all of which failed so utterly and spectacularly.

The old Terminator dropped to one knee, sitting on an outcropping just over the highway outside Gotham city. He hefted up a rocket launcher, waited patiently for the ludicrously expensive sports car to come into view, and silently tutted the driver for so rudely breaking the speed limit. Then he pulled the trigger. The heat-seeking rocket was aimed with a mechanical flawlessness, not to destroy the car completely but to throw it off the road and out of commission.

No, no... The money did not matter. But damn if it wasn't good business.

Bruce’s entire world erupted in bursts of white, orange, and black. His hearing had been thrown out of commission for the first five seconds, he didn’t feel anything, and he felt like his consciousness had been snuffed out. His mind was actively aware of the threat of blacking out, and all he could think somewhere in the back of his subconscious was: I told you so.  
By the time everything stopped spinning, he lifted his head off of the dust and patches of grass, vaguely aware of the blood that reached out for his hairline, before reluctantly releasing him. 

Slowly, he turned his neck to look at the great heap of metal and fire, his eyes narrowing at the sight. What the hell had even happened? He hadn’t heard anything, he didn’t see anybody. No...this didn’t come from another car. Nobody else was here but him. Call it intuition, but the longer he stared at the heap of metal, fighting bile that continued to try to creep up and into his throat, the more he began to realize that this hadn’t been just some freak accident, and he hadn’t hit anything. Somebody was out for blood. It couldn’t have been a car bomb, the vehicle would have alerted him. He learned after the first faulty bomb job; faulty being the key reason he was still alive if he was honest, to have a special system installed in order to detect such threats for the future. He promised himself that such an underhanded way of killing would never again catch him off guard. No matter which skin he was wearing. 

But his inner Bat wasn’t finished here, and gradually, he rolled onto his knees and tore the jacket off of his body to offer extra mobility. The shrapnel that caught his eye was unmistakable, and that was what put his senses on high alert after his ears stopped ringing. He had been around Rogues such as the Joker long enough to know the remains of a rocket launcher when he saw it. Somebody was out here with him, and somebody would be coming to check for a body. 

The billionaire was kicked off uselessly to the side, and the monster within happily took over from here. The damage to his body was irrelevant as the creature inside screamed for him to get to his feet, and get back to the city as fast as he could. Get somewhere public, and out of this assassin’s reach. Despite the shards of glass lodged in his back and chest, despite the fractured ribs, regardless of the concussion he had definitely sustained, he heeded the internal warnings and managed to stagger to his feet, but wisely remained crouched as low as possible. The rocket only had so far it could travel and hit a moving target, and he had lost any sense of which way it likely could have come from, he hadn’t even seen the damn thing hit. So that meant his attacker was still somewhere close by, and without his armour, he was at a great disadvantage. He had no weapons, no grapple, no phone, and no means of traveling faster than his legs. So once again, he had to simply rely on his body and wits. 

He couldn’t go out into the open. That was begging for a bullet to the back, so he could take to the waters, and simply swim back to Gotham while staying beneath the surface for as long as possible; but eventually, he’d have to come back up for air and expose his head, or he could try to evade him by using the nearby wooded areas. He might leave behind more of a trail to follow; between the blood and tracks, but at least he would have plenty of cover. So with the process of elimination done, he took a thin piece of metal from the rubble for protection, and staying low, limped his way out towards the woods, confident enough in his sense of direction to hopefully evade his attacker just long enough.

Slade’s infrared was rendered momentarily useless by the sudden heat, and ensuing conflagration that took the target car. He shut it off, not that he couldn't see far better in the dark than most men. Behind the grim visage, a faint frown played at the corner of his mouth. Maybe the shot had been a hair off and his target hadn't survived after all. Oh well, just another dead rich man...

There. Movement, away from the ruined vehicle. Clever man was using a hunk of warped metal as cover - likely from potential sniper fire. With a predatory agility, the Terminator made his way down the rocky outcropping and into the woods after his quarry. It wasn't long at all before he caught up with the wounded billionaire, realizing as he did so that the man was fleeing to a nearby river. He couldn't allow that, of course.

"Mister Wayne," came the deadpan metallic growl. No hint of hostility or sadistic malevolence, just a matter of fact call for his attention. The chase was up. Deathstroke's sleek orange and black armor - that signature dual-visage of his nearly featureless mask - was visible even in the dim light cast by the full moon overhead. He kept his blades sheathed, and pistols holstered. For now.

"I hope you were wearing your seat belt."

The voice gave away a great deal more than Bruce thought his attacker would ever realize. The calm, level-headed tone. This man wasn’t at all worried or excited over what he was doing. He was a hard professional, and that was perhaps the most dangerous of them all. Furthermore, he had caught up to him, and it wasn’t a surprise really. With his body battered combined with his wounds and makeshift shield, it wasn’t exactly hard to do if you were fast and surefooted. 

What shook his confidence slightly was when the recognition flooded his eyes at the sight of the dual coloured mask. He knew he couldn’t look at him in such a way. A way to let him know that yes, he knew exactly who he was, but there was only so much a trained poker face could grant when mixed together with a piss poor act. 

Bruce Wayne was many things to the city. A genius, a playboy, a bit of a party animal, warm-hearted, and occasionally snobbish when he mingled with the glittering sharks of the higher class. But above all, spineless when faced with danger. He was always the first one out of a room when trouble came knocking. 

So standing here now, faced with a foe he knew quite well as Batman, he had to be careful. He would do whatever he had to do to survive, but he couldn’t give away that he knew /how/ to survive. 

He tried to appear nervous, keeping the piece of metal tight in his grip, and slightly in front of his body as a pitiful barrier. He took a few steps back, trying to save what precious space there was between them. It seemed Slade had caught onto his plan about swimming and had come to cut him off, so he had to think of something else. But if he could help it, he had to avoid a fight. So with his thoughts racing, he gripped onto the banter offered to him by the Master assassin. If he could just keep him talking…

“Nice of you to check...but it turns out to be a good thing I wasn’t. What do you want?” he asked dumbly, controlling the nagging impulse he had to attack Slade with the scrap metal.

"Come now, Bruce, I haven't blown your brains out." Gloved fingers brushed the ivory hilt of one of his magnums, and he paced a few steps closer. Never in a straight line, always to one side or the other, inching closer at an agonizing pace like a wolf circling wounded prey. 

"... Just yet, at any rate. My shot back there, to get you off the road. I didn't miss. I never miss."

He halted a few steps away from Bruce. If the billionaire could muster up the strength, he might be able to charge him. The Terminator almost relished the thought. It was so disappointing when men opted for the gentle passage into that eternal night.

"I've always felt there's a certain purity in looking a man in the eye before you take his life. Even a playboy like you deserves that level of respect. Unfortunately, my employer didn't pay me to taunt you." In the blink of an eye that magnum came up, a heavy round exploding from the hand gun's maw, more than capable of punching through the ruined chunk of scrap his prey had selected as a makeshift shield. Of course, the shot itself was not quite meant to kill. Indeed it would punch through the shield and miss entirely. Slade still sensed a warrior's heart hidden somewhere in the depths of this aristocrat before him, perhaps he could draw it out.

Bruce’s eyes couldn’t help but follow the magnum the instant the fingers so much as twitched. He tried to avert his eyes, to feign apprehension in the face of this stone killer, but his inner Bat was flailing and roaring, angry and thirsting for a battle. Somebody had paid this man to take his life, and only his honour compelled him to avert his shot long enough to look into Bruce’s stormy blue eyes. He would not get lucky like that again. 

In fact, the second the gun was drawn, Bruce’s instincts screamed for him to drop the stupid act and fight. A gun did not mean death. Not to him. Bless his Father’s soul, he hadn’t had the training required to take on a speeding bullet. While he knew he wasn’t invincible, he was conditioned, and that mattered a great deal. He might not have the will to kill, but he certainly had the will to act. Although, if he had known that the shot was meant as a means of riling him, he might have acted a bit differently. 

Most people in his position, ignorant to the ways of fighting, might have fallen backwards, or even forward to their knees depending on their emotional state. They might have begun shaking, terror filling their eyes, their lips babbling incoherent pleas. And while Bruce considered himself a grade A actor, acting frightened, and oblivious in the ways of fighting, was not something he could do. 

His leg extended out, and he quickly skirted forward and somewhat off to the side, his arm falling back from the power of the bullet forcing its way through his metallic shield. But his grip held true, and with a turn on his heel to follow the momentum of his arm, he stepped forward and attempted to slam the hunk of metal against his attacker’s upper body.

That was not supposed to happen. Rich cowards that fled at the first sign of danger were not supposed to move with the military precision and ferocity of a warrior of the night. Something about the unflinching resolve almost reminded Slade, in that instant before impact, of...

Impossible.

The assassin turned his left shoulder into the impact, meeting it full force with firm footing. A lesser man may have not been able to react at all, may have been thrown back by the sudden and desperate offensive. But Slade Wilson was the pinnacle of human prowess, an augmented killing machine and a master of the art of war. He met the blow head-on and shoved. Hard. At the very least, enough to push his prey off and gain some distance.

As soon as he'd done so, both magnums came up. But he did not fire this time. Only stared, curiosity piqued by the enigma of a billionaire. Nothing in Wayne's dossier mentioned anything beyond some low-grade civilian self-defense courses. Perhaps his butler had passed down some of that military training in private?

"... Curious." Was all the Terminator said, keeping his weapons trained on this newfound source of fascination.

The term stupid became a chant in his mind the instant the impact was met with a firm shoulder, Slade’s trained, enhanced muscles easily deflecting him. He let himself be shoved back, using the piece of metal to compensate for any lost balance before it was held in front of his chest again. It might not be worth anything for defense as he had hoped, but it was the only weapon he had. He shouldn’t have moved. The gunfire had been a bluff. A way to tease his prey and Bruce had just given away more of himself to this mercenary than any one man should know about. Now, Slade was aware that he could hold his own in a fight, he was resilient and unafraid. 

What billionaire just got up and hauled ass after surviving what wasn’t just a car crash, but a literal explosion? What cocky, white collar piece of Gotham trash was just able to use another piece of trash against the likes of Slade? Why not just tattoo it onto his forehead who he /really/ was? 

Slade and the Batman had fought against each other before. He had studied and learned a little about how Slade fought and moved, and he was more than certain that the favour had been returned. And Slade was not by any means daft. He was a keen observer, and the way he was looking at Bruce now had the billionaire playboy in a different state of terror. His paranoia gnawed away at him, warning him against anything further when that simple word was uttered. Curious. He /knew/. Or if he didn’t, he was putting it together as they stood there, eyeing each other. That cold, calculating stare meeting with one of a now genuine apprehension. Not for his life, but that of the Batman’s. Bruce Wayne was meant as a means of protecting and sheltering the creature until nightfall when Gotham needed him. If he was exposed...what would happen? It was bad enough the number of people that already knew...but in the hands of somebody like Slade? It was enough to make him inwardly panic. 

“Look,” he tried weakly, desperate to save face. “Whatever you were paid, I can double it if you just walk away from this.”

"It has always fascinated me - just where, exactly, the human mind will go in its final moments." Slade holstered his magnums and slipped back into that dual state of relaxed alertness mirrored by the juxtaposed colors of his armor. A moment of thoughtful silence and he began pacing his prey once again. This time, he began moving in a full circle, waiting and watching carefully.

"Where has yours gone? Not to your family, I imagine. Bachelor such as you are. Don't fret, Bruce. I am a man of honor, with an unshakable faith in humanity. A faith that each and every one of us is driven by survival in our darkest and most desperate moments. Wouldn't you agree?" This mystery would solve itself. All he had to do was tease it out.

He reached back and unsheathed one of the two cold steel katanas from their resting place at his back, tossing it with a careless finesse to his wounded quarry. It landed, tip embedding itself firmly in the ground, at his feet. Slade took his time drawing its sister blade, letting the full reality of Bruce's situation sink in. Giving him that precious little time to decide whether he would fight his fate, or let this charade be his end.

The chill in his voice nearly caused for Bruce’s spine to shudder. Slade’s mind was made up, and there would be no smooth talking his way out of this. He was faced with two options now, and that was to fight for his life, whatever it took, or let this facade drive him to his grave to protect his greatest secret. When the guns were holstered, Bruce’s attention was heightened, and he felt his palms beginning to sweat with anticipation. Slade was up to something, and he felt those precious seconds slipping away from him with each imposing step. Dark blue eyes narrowed at his attacker, watching as he began to circle him like a predator, and Bruce’s body followed his eyes, smoothly turning on his heel, keeping his shield up as he listened. 

Oh, how wrong he was. His thoughts went to his surrogate family immediately when he was faced with the reality that he could very well die today, at the hands of a very skilled assassin. Alfred, Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian...not to mention the friends he had acquired along the way….they would all be affected. A Father, the son his guardian never had, a comrade, and a friend. There was so much to lose even without considering Gotham’s fate without Batman. He had no choice...not anymore. 

As the soft hiss of the katana greeted his ears like an old friend, he watched with a cold expression as the blade dug into the ground. Within the same span of time, the shield was thrown to the side, and Bruce took the sleeve of his ruined shirt in his hand, before jerking the fabric away. Knowing that Slade would be true enough to his word, he wrapped the fabric around his leg to stop the bleeding, before taking the hilt and meeting the single eye with his own determined stare. Backed into a corner with no other way out, his resolve was final, and he called to his inner Bat to aid him. Today, the Batman would repay Bruce Wayne. 

“As a matter of fact, I would. When pushed hard enough, humans are capable of extraordinary things,” he commented dryly, remaining in place with the blade held firmly and at the ready.

The tip of Deathstroke's katana glided back, hovering mere inches above the ground. He crouched, just a touch, muscles coiling underneath him like a great predator. For a few moments, all was still and silent. The only motion was the gentle fall of snow and the occasional puff of hot air from each duelist.

He exploded into motion, combat boots scarcely making a sound as they tore across the snowy ground. He came at Bruce with a strong and strangely predictable uppercut, the katana sweeping up to carve the billionaire in twain if it did land solidly.

Of course, a combination of a dodge and a parry were a simple response to that. The ensuing offensive was fast and fairly unforgiving, but Batman - not Bruce Wayne - knew full well that Slade was capable of so much more. Something was holding him back, slowing him down, and while his strikes were still relentless enough to take down any normal swordsman, they were ill-suited to fight the golden child of the League of Shadows.

All the while, Slade Wilson watched and waited with each stroke, each thrust, every parry and counter. He was allowing his opponent to become comfortable, allowing him to slip into a rhythm, all the while seeking to discern that nagging familiarity that hung about his fascinating prey.

Parry, counter, strike, defend, step, and repeat. Bruce’s eyes never left the assassin’s, his feet moving in a smooth, experienced step to the beat of their duel. The biting cold fell away from his skin, the warmth of his blood, the pain of his injuries unnoticed as the repetition began to take place. This was where he was the most comfortable, locked into a heated battle where the song of a warrior could be sung. There were no complications, there were no chases, no second guessing, no tricks. Movement, reflexes, on the fly strategy, and the occasional spark of a blade gliding along the length of its sister. The hilt felt comfortable in his grip, the weight easy to manage with his injuries. A simple extension of his arm even if he was not quite the Master of this particular blade. 

Every secret was being handed over strike after strike, and while it was a great cause for concern, Bruce found himself stepping further, and further away from the thought. Bruce Wayne was pulling his weight tonight for the sake of the Batman, and this was what it took. Survival was priority tonight, and failure was not an option, for there was simply too much at stake. Slade Wilson could not, and would not find easy prey with the battle-worn vigilante. The bridge of what to do to cover his tracks when this was over would simply need to be crossed when reached. And he would reach it. He was determined, focused, and growing more and more anxious as the battle continued. 

Slade was holding back, and there were several sound reasons why that could be, but no doubt in his mind. Batman had experienced a battle pace that had been turned up to eleven and was matched with a skill that had nearly put him on the ground more than once. Slade was toying with him perhaps. He was very interested in him the very instant he had fired that first round at him, maybe even sometime before that. He was watching him closely, putting him together in his mind like some sort of jigsaw puzzle, and the anticipation of his conclusion was provoking Bruce more than if he had just outright confessed his thoughts. Maybe he was just being paranoid, but he doubted that. And he found his strikes responding to his aggressive thought patterns. His speed increased, he defended less, and attacked more, almost trying to find ways to drive the assassin back, or even disarm him if the opportunity presented itself.

"Aha, now I see." His voice was almost disturbingly calm, showing no signs of breathlessness. Unlike the unfortunate Wayne before him, Deathstroke had no reason to hide who he was - an augmented weapon of war, the epitome of human perfection.

And it showed. In an instant, Slade's speed accelerated to superhuman levels as one spiked vambrace came up to catch Bruce's "borrowed" katana and wrench it from his grip, back into Slade's free hand in one smooth motion. In that same instant - inside of a single adrenaline-fueled heartbeat, even - a heavy combat boot came up to deliver a savage kick to Bruce's wounded leg.

Bruce's growing offensive, it seemed, would cost him the fight. The second the wounded man had faltered the augmented assassin closed in to finish it all, both blades coming up to cross at his throat. All that was left now was to accept the Terminator's ruthlessness - or, perhaps, his mercy.

"It is so rare to find a man with such conviction, yet one who uses League of Shadows training to end a fight... without killing his opponent. I have only met one such man in all my life."

His voice didn’t really distract him as much as it concerned him. It was becoming more and more clear now that Slade was solving the puzzle, and at this point, there was absolutely nothing he could do now to hit the brakes. But that was the least of his worries now. In his haste and frustrations, in his hurry to finish the fight before he ran out of steam, it cost him. The blade flew from his grip, eager to return to her Master before a sharp, powerful kick shot waves of pain up his leg, forcing the knee to buckle underneath him, and ungracefully spill him into the snow and blood. 

Landing on his back, he tried to move in order to recover his footing, but froze with his hands up the instant he felt the cool steel crossing on either side of his neck. The pin worked, and with a clenched jaw, brows furrowing together to silently curse his own shortcoming, he glanced up to Slade with an expression confected of disappointment and frustration, quite aware of his own mistake. 

Honestly, although he had been expecting it, nothing could have prepared him for when the mercenary not only mentioned the League of Shadows; calling him out for a very intimate past that not even the Joker was aware of, but hammered down on the fact that the ‘Batman’ did not kill. He had only met one such man….and it was then that Bruce reluctantly began to accept the cold hard fact that he had been found out. 

With a low, soft sigh, his body cold and now wet from the falling snow, he fixed a more determined stare up at the assassin, finally addressing the matter at hand now that he was trapped and at the mercy of his hired killer. 

“That must be quite a character you met to receive such high praise. You don’t seem like an easy man to impress.”

"I have to wonder how much more my employer would be willing to pay if he knew," Slade kept his blades crossed, but made no aggressive motions. It would be suicide, of course, to try anything. The Terminator's reflexes were augmented in such a manner that an escape or counter strike would result in instant decapitation. If Bruce died here, though, it would be a warrior's death - honorable and true, at the hands of perhaps one of the most lethal humans in the world.

But even in those rare moments where Slade managed to best the Batman on equal footing (as rare as the moments where Batman bested Slade, in turn) he had never been able to bring himself to finish this job in particular. It was always fascinating, thrilling to see the man adapt to a new combat style as the Terminator brought something new to the table and vice versa. True equals, carried along different paths.

Suddenly Slade drew back, sheathing both blades with a twirl and stepped out of arm's reach of the wounded and defeated Wayne. It was over. He had bested the caped crusader, and now had a more dangerous weapon against Batman than any blade or firearm.

"I trust we will meet again soon. Perhaps the venerable master Wayne should lay low for a while. For dramatic effect, of course."

Dark brows knitted together in concern, Bruce’s eyes revealing his uncertainty in the assassin’s words. That could mean a number of things. He would let him live until he could haggle for a bigger price, exposing him to the world. Or perhaps he had simply lost interest because it wasn’t Bruce Wayne he would be killing, but the Batman...that was possible, but also vain. The Batman’s encounters with Slade usually ended with questionable intentions. There seemed to be a mutual respect in place, and the few times that Slade had managed to best him, he’d let him live. Let him learn from his mistakes, let him come back and try again, only to return the favour should his skill or luck prove superior. But that was because the Batman did not kill...and he could write an entire book of theories based on the reasons possible that Slade allowed him to live. 

However, this wasn’t just a simple encounter. His entire identity had been exposed and drug to the surface. While he was a bit more relieved when the assassin suddenly stepped back and sheathed his weapons, it did little to truly comfort him. Yes, he was alive but at what cost? Slowly, his hands lowered away from his head and into the snow, arms shifting to push his upper body into a sitting position, but he did not stand yet. The position was vulnerable perhaps but done so on purpose. He needed to convey the acknowledgment that he had lost, accepted this defeat, and posed no further threat. 

As Slade spoke again, Bruce listened attentively, but he felt no sense of relief. Did that mean to heal until their next encounter, or to prepare for an angry Gotham city when the truth was revealed to the world? Such exposure could destroy everything he had. His companies, his influence and reputation, his family, and especially Batman. Not to mention all of the people who relied on Batman. The Justice League, the Outsiders, the Birds of Prey, the Teen Titans, his Rogues even, at least the ones who /did/ rely on him for something. Just thinking about the implosion that would happen if the Joker caught wind of such a grand reveal made him fear for Gotham’s future. Not that he didn’t know the name behind the mask as well, but heaven forbid somebody come between him and his fun. 

“Slade, wait.” Slowly, he moved to get to his feet, ignoring the biting pain that shot through his body from his wounds, and brushing off the cold chills from having most of his back wet from the snow. 

“There’s a lot riding on your discretion. What would it take?”

The Terminator paused, and for a moment the air was thick with tension. He had opted for mercy, perhaps against his better discretion - when his employer did learn that he had failed to kill Bruce Wayne, there would be minor annoyances to deal with. Nothing that could mar his reputation beyond repair, but there would without a shadow of a doubt be consequences.

But the advantage of knowing the true identity of the Batman...

"Almost surreal, isn't it?" He came to a dead stop, but did not fully turn to face his defeated quarry. "The Batman attempting to bribe a lowly mercenary, just to keep his secret safe. Relax, Bruce, I'm well aware of the sort of fallout associated with that sort of information being revealed. I'm a worldly man, I've seen enough chaos and malcontent. Call it... a favor, if you will. Something I may or may not choose to call upon in the future."

The discussion was over. Even as he finished his not so subtle threat, he was walking away. Soon the cold night took him, and he was gone from even Bruce's well trained sight, with his words hanging in the freezing air.


End file.
